


Demon's Food Cake

by CircularShades



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Belly Expansion, Belly Kink, Body Worship, Eating, Hand Feeding, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rapid weight gain, Vaginal Sex, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircularShades/pseuds/CircularShades
Summary: Crowley bakes Aziraphale a cake, with certain miraculous demonic properties.





	Demon's Food Cake

It had started with the way Crowley watches Aziraphale eat. Aziraphale has always been able to feel him watching - he'd taken it for intellectual fascination at first, but after the first few instances over those first several millennia, he might have thought the shine would wear off.

It continued with touches, as their relationship to each other, and to Earthly pleasures, started to involve their human forms. Aziraphale couldn't help but notice the attention Crowley paid to the softer parts of him: a pinch of his behind, a nip at the lightly rounded skin around his navel, a strong grip against the fleshy parts of his thighs. Crowley has always enjoyed the parts of Aziraphale he can squeeze, and knead, and bite without causing too much pain. Although rarely spoken out loud in so many words, it's something Aziraphale has long since understood.

One day, Crowley had come to Aziraphale with an idea that sounded like he'd plucked it directly out of Aziraphale's head - because he rather had. Demons could feel desire, after all, even those desires people, or angels, denied and hid from themselves. It was an idea that had drifted through Aziraphale's mind on occasion when he was letting it wander, or on the even rarer occasion when he slept and had an unexpected dream, only to awake flushed and flustered and in need of rather vigorously organizing his bookshop.

This idea, Crowley had said, was something he was entirely capable of making happen. He _wanted_ to - that is, so long as Aziraphale wanted him to. Aziraphale had weighed Crowley's wording for a moment, considered the effort he'd put in to make it _not_ sound like a temptation.

“That’s a very generous offer," he'd said, letting the teasing carry through in his tone.

“I’m a demon," Crowley had responded flatly. "I can’t be being _that_ generous.”

* * *

 

They're in Crowley's flat, in the bedroom, the door closed to keep the plants from overhearing too much. Crowley keeps the space just as sparse as the rest of the apartment: there's the bed, a night stand with a cabinet, and today, a table with two chairs.

Crowley sets a cake in front of him. It's covered in a shell of glossy chocolate, with a pair of wings piped in white on the top. Aziraphale takes a moment to admire the simple artistry of the decoration.

"This is it?" They've discussed the  _what_ , but not the particulars of  _how_. The item is not much larger than a typical dessert in a restaurant, and Aziraphale wonders if there might not be more lying in wait somewhere.

"I infused it with quite a few demonic miracles," Crowley assures him. "We won't need any more than this."

Aziraphale watches as Crowley cuts out a quarter of the cake and lifts it onto a plate. The dessert is chocolate all the way through. Beneath the shining outer shell are layers of creamy frosting and slabs of glistening, dark sponge. Aziraphale feels indulgent just looking at it.

The taste, when he comes to it, is just as, well - sinful as it looks. The shell melts slow, coating the inside of Aziraphale’s mouth with its sweet flavor and creamy texture, while the cool frosting and luscious cake meld together on his tongue. Even the texture as it goes down is delightful, and it settles as a warm weight in his stomach.

He takes his time to really experience the first bite, because Crowley is watching - because Crowley is  _always_ watching when he eats - and because this is something Crowley made. 

"What do you think?"  
  
“It's very rich." Although - wait. Aziraphale feels a shift: the warmth in his stomach changes to something _fluid_ , and when it fades, there's an unfamiliar pressure in his midsection. With a thoughtful frown, he lowers a hand to press his fingertips against the front of his waistcoat. It's subtle, but there's a tiny bit more give to the flab over his stomach than there was before. Aziraphale's eyes widen with understanding as he weighs the fork in his hand, prepares to cut the second bite. "That  _is_ wicked.”

“You can thwart me later.”

"I might have to." To balance things out, somehow. For right now, Aziraphale is going to continue enjoying the temptation. His assessment of the cake's miraculous nature was on the money: with every bite, his body is putting on weight, swelling under his clothes. The delightful sensation this inspires, Aziraphale thinks,  _must_ be demonic as well. He's not certain anything feels this good naturally.  
  
The first piece of cake is gone too soon. He's nowhere near full, but he does feel stuffed into his clothing. The fabric of his vest is just staring to pucker around the buttons. Aziraphale sits up straight and tugs at it to make sure it's covering his belly, and feels a definite squish from the tightness of his trousers.

"Terribly indulgent." He sits back and pats a hand on the side of his stomach, runs a hand over the top curve. He has a _curve_ there. That's normally something that only happens when he's already full. He shifts his hips, feeling out the subtle change to his center of gravity. "I _could_ have another piece."

Crowley smiles, and takes back the empty plate. Aziraphale reaches for the buttons of his vest, but Crowley brings him up short with: "Oh, but - don't do that yet." When Aziraphale looks back across the table, Crowley looks... serious. "I - I'd prefer it if you didn't do that yet."

Aziraphale glances down at the rest of the cake - there's quite a lot of it left - and back up again, thinking of the mending that could be needed when this is over. "Do you want to see me tear my clothes to pieces?"

"I won't let them tear. There's at least one more miracle where this came from." Crowley cuts the second slice, lets it fall onto the plate, and pushes the plate across the table. All his attention is back on Aziraphale. "Trust me."

Aziraphale gives a level stare into the dark lenses over Crowley's eyes, for another few seconds. Crowley knows how much care he puts into his wardrobe, yes...?

Crowley's lower lip pouts a little, and Aziraphale feels his point has landed. He returns to his delectable task. The flavor is just as intense as before, and oh, the feeling of _bliss_ after he swallows, as he feels himself _grow..._  
  
The feeling of being constrained only worsens as he finishes the second piece. He wants to trust what Crowley said about not letting his clothes rip, but he can't stop himself from worrying. The fabric is starting to strain between the buttonholes _._ The waistband of his trousers is digging sharply into his lower abdomen. There's barely any room left to breathe. Even with demonic intervention, how much longer could his clothes reasonably last?

“Crowley please," he tries to reason. "The vest, it's -”

Crowley snaps his fingers and all the fastenings on Aziraphale's clothing are undone at once, save for a few shirt buttons covering his chest. Flesh surges forward from underneath, revealing the way the new weight has settled on him. His belly is now a decidedly a ball gut, a rounded blob of fat that puffs out slightly at the sides. Aziraphale thinks he can feel a touch more softness in his behind against the chair, but that could be the new weight in his gut squishing down the softness that was already there. The release of the threat to his clothing, as well as the pressure, prompts Aziraphale to let out a breath of relief.  
  
“...oh. Thank you...” He places a hand on the side of his stomach. It's somewhat rounder, more dome-like than he expected it to be. He starts to squeeze and prod at it, getting acquainted with the way it springs back into shape. Crowley stands, walks around to Aziraphale's side of the table, and joins in the exploration: he pinches Aziraphale's belly fat, grazes his fingernails over the skin, pulls his hand back a few inches and gives it a slap. Aziraphale feels the reverberation of it throughout the whole mass.

"Gluttony looks so good on you." Crowley straddles his lap, which sets the hardness between his legs right against Aziraphale's rounded flesh. He grabs the belly from both sides and gives it a couple of shakes up and down, rough denim and a hard cock grinding into the softness. "I could ravage you right now, angel."  
  
Aziraphale licks his lips. The taste of chocolate is still coating the inside of his mouth, but he knows it's only a fraction of the real flavor, and there's more where that came from. Crowley, he thinks, might have made the cake too delicious for his own benefit.

“I think perhaps..." He lifts a hand and brushes his fingers against Crowley's cheek, to make sure he has the demon's attention. "...you should feed me the next one."

Crowley's lip curls, and Aziraphale can only imagine what his eyes are doing behind the sunglasses. After a second, Crowley waves his hand, and a fresh plate appears in it, with a fresh fork, and another slice of cake. Crowley takes up the fork, cuts a bite off the corner of the piece. Aziraphale is already parting his lips, but they drop open farther in surprise when Crowley slips the bite of cake into his own mouth.

Aziraphale's eyes lower to watch as the flesh beneath Crowley’s shirt grows, rounding and pressing against the fabric just a little. He can feel it, too, the way the fat pools in the lower part of the demon's abdomen. It presses back against him the next time Crowley breathes.

"Mm." Crowley examines the empty fork. “I have to say, when I really make an effort — I am good.”

He stays in Aziraphale's lap to feed him, scooping up forkfuls of cake and sliding them between Aziraphale's lips. Every few bites, he raises the fork to his own mouth and licks it clean. Every time he does, a little more roundness swells from between his jutting hipbones, above the solid rod of his erection. After the third piece of cake, Aziraphale’s belly is brushing the insides of his thighs, while Crowley’s has just started to make his shirt ride up.

Crowley sets the plate aside. He brushes a fleck of cake and frosting from the corner of Aziraphale's lips with his thumb, then licks it off. His other hand slides across the fabric of his t-shirt. He seems to be enjoying _his_ new shape as well. "Last one?"

"Oh, please," Aziraphale entreats him. He is actually starting to feel full, and so heavy he's bound to have trouble standing, but if it's only _one_ more...

Crowley reaches forward to undo the top buttons of Aziraphale's shirt, to tug his bow tie loose and set it just so beneath the undone collar. His fingers part fabric and graze over Aziraphale's nipples. Aziraphale hadn't been able to sense it earlier, but his chest _does_ feel a bit puffy. And although the seams are holding strong, the fabric of his trousers is definitely starting to strain.

For the final piece, Crowley forgoes a fork and feeds Aziraphale torn-off mouthfuls of cake from his fingers. Aziraphale licks at them greedily, sucks at them to get every last bit of frosting off. Each time he swallows, a little more of that warm feeling floods into his growing belly, and each time it's  _almost_ enough to have him incoherent with ecstasy. Crowley takes the occasional interlude to pinch at, slap, heft Aziraphale's weight in his hand. It eventually grows so large and heavy that it starts to sag, drooping toward his lap.

Crowley also takes a few more tastes for himself: crumbs popped between his lips, leftover frosting sucked off his fingers before Aziraphale can get it. When the last crumb is licked up, and the plate discarded, Crowley stands, revealing a rather prominent potbelly in the middle of his otherwise sinewy frame. His shirt is stretched so thoroughly that Aziraphale can see the impression of his navel, and there's a solid inch of skin visible between the bottom of his shirt and his belt.

When Aziraphale looks up, Crowley is taking off his glasses, and rolling tension out of his neck. He drops the shades behind him onto the table, idly runs his finger knuckles over the curve of his stomach, then lowers his hands to his belt.

"Feeling satisfied?"

"So very nearly." Aziraphale has a window of time, here, in which to take stock of himself. Regain some composure. He makes an attempt at sitting up straighter, the fabric of his trousers bites hard into the creases of his hips, and oh... _oh._ He's wet, to the point of soaking his underthings. He doesn't recall when exactly he manifested genitals, but it must have happened somewhere in the last few minutes.

He didn't, he thinks, know it was possible for having a body to feel this exquisite. The sensations, the changes, even the ache that makes him want Crowley to fuck him hard against the nearest horizontal surface. Aziraphale watches Crowley undo his belt and pull his cock free from his jeans. He watches as Crowley starts to stroke himself with a sigh, bright yellow eyes clearly raking down Aziraphale's body. That fluid, warm feeling now moves to a spot  _below_ Aziraphale's belly. Another drop of wetness pools between his legs. The new weight means more pressure on his clitoris by virtue of gravity alone, and he needs to be touching Crowley _now_.

Both hands push Crowley's shirt upwards, then grasp his waist and pull. Aziraphale leans forward, making his trousers bite harder at his hips, and his belly protrude almost to his knees - he couldn't put his legs together if he tried. His lips meet the softened flesh over Crowley's stomach. All those little nibbles Crowley took for himself... "I'm still -" he almost says  _hungry_ , but what he's feeling is decidedly not hunger. "I still want you."

Slender fingers rake through the hair at the back of Aziraphale's head, and Crowley presses his stomach closer to the light touch of Aziraphale's lips. ”How do you want me?”

”I’m wet. G—" The choked-off sound is Aziraphale not wanting to bring  _God_ into this, of all beings. "I want you thrusting between my thighs.”

Crowley's bending down to kiss him, placing hands on his ribs, encouraging him to stand. Aziraphale's legs try to wobble as he rises; he's so heavy, his body so primed with desire. Luckily he doesn't have to go farther than five steps, and Crowley's there to guide him the whole way.

There is a scramble of hands and limbs as Aziraphale settles onto the bed and his last scraps of clothing are removed. Crowley helps him position his hips at the mattress' edge. Aziraphale tries to stay sitting up, but there's just so _much_ of him now that he has to lie back. When he does, Crowley's shoulders and head are the only parts of him Aziraphale can see, over the dome of his stomach.

He can still _feel_ so much more. Hands on his newly-formed love handles, flesh rubbing against flesh, flesh _penetrating_ flesh. Belly to belly, Crowley's pelvic bone pressed against Aziraphale's tender clitoris, cock stretching his passage. Crowley starts to thrust, and the rhythmic pressure makes that sweet ache inside Aziraphale start to loosen, bringing him closer to the edge. It isn't long until Crowley is fucking him hard enough to make Aziraphale _shake_ , the energy rippling through every part of his body.

"I can't tell you -" Aziraphale gasps, his head starting to spin, "- what it feels like."

"You don't have to, angel," Crowley growls, and sinks his grip deeper into Aziraphale's backside. Aziraphale wraps his legs around Crowley's hips, feels something inside him quiver and release, and arches his back, crying out.

* * *

Later, Aziraphale is still sprawled on his back in Crowley's bed, while Crowley lavishes attention over every inch of new flesh with his mouth and hands. How he loves to squeeze the angel's thighs, to kiss his soft, rounded gut. He slides down to taste the wetness he inspired, lapping his tongue against a reddened labia, coaxing Aziraphale to another climax. The gasping noises Aziraphale makes as he comes inspires a fresh surge of lust in Crowley's groin.

Once they've exhausted themselves, Crowley suspects, things are going to have to change again. He's preparing himself for it, at least. Aziraphale may not want to stay like this, lest the very sudden changes to his body invite questions. Crowley has one more miracle saved up to put them both back the way they were.

He does hope that Aziraphale wants to keep a little bit of weight. Maybe enough to make that favorite vest of his a  _hair_ too small.

He thinks he might like to keep a bit himself. Tasting the cake had been a whim, but Crowley is rather enjoying how his stomach bounces when he moves his hips, the way fabric clings and stretches over his rounded skin. It would be quite nice to carry around a physical reminder of the event.

All that is to be discussed and decided later. For now, Crowley is slithering back up the length of Aziraphale's body, letting his erection swell to fullness against the inside of Aziraphale's thigh, licking the taste of salt from his neck - the angel never sweats hard enough to exude droplets, but sometimes, he tastes so human.

Crowley lingers his lips by Aziraphale's ear. He's trying to stay attuned to what Aziraphale wants, but his senses have gotten muddied by his own desires. "How are you feeling?"

"Luxurious, my dear." Aziraphale nuzzles his head sideways against Crowley's, draws fingertips up his spine. Crowley gives a lazy thrust of his pelvis. The sensation is delicious, though perhaps he  _is_ running lower on energy. He's not prepared to be quite as vigorous as last time. He's just starting to wonder what to do about it when Aziraphale adds: "Now, what is it you want?"

Crowley runs his hand up Aziraphale's curves, thinking, greedily, that there must be _more_ ways to feel this that he hasn't explored yet.

"Ride me." He says it as soon as he thinks it. "Sit on my hips.  _Pressss_ me into the mattress." Oh, yes, that's what he wants: Aziraphale straddling and rocking on top of him, his belly bouncing against Crowley's. Aziraphale plants a tender kiss against Crowley's temple, and Crowley almost whimpers.

"On your back, then." Crowley takes the cue to roll onto his back and watch with unguarded eyes as Aziraphale climbs on top, gets himself in position and sinks down until Crowley is buried in him. Crowley waits for him to set the pace before hooking his hands around Aziraphale's thighs. Aziraphale's weight rolls over him, rolls back, and Crowley has to shut his eyes to drink in the sensation. He presses his hips upward to meet Aziraphale's, giving the angel that much more to grind against as they both ride toward the last gate. Crowley doesn't cry out when he comes: he  _hisses_ through his teeth, while his whole frame tenses, then goes slack.

This time, when Aziraphale lies back, Crowley sprawls on top of him, cradling his head in his arms on the peak of Ariziraphale's stomach, which rises and falls underneath him with each breath. Later - later, they'll discuss how much remains. For now, Crowley lets the gentle motion lull him into the indulgence of a nap.


End file.
